


Protector

by WellSpokenMan



Category: BioShock
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellSpokenMan/pseuds/WellSpokenMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently whilst playing BioShock, I noticed a Big Daddy lifting a Little Sister gently into one of those special pipes they use, and this gentle, almost paternal behaviour inspired this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protector

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments or criticisms are entirely welcome

The hulking, tarnished metallic form waded with an unflinching tenacity through the murky water encasing the dank, dilapidated depths of the sprawling, submerged citadel of Rapture.  
The access pipe was shattered, crystalline shards floating in the water, throwing the refracted light from the surface in a kaleidoscope of illumination. A luminous demonstration of chaotic beauty that meant nothing to the creature, its humanity reduced to miscellaneous organs bonded with the symbolic diving suit that struck fear into the depraved souls of the dead city of Rapture's inhabitants. The creature's purpose was simple: maintain the city of Rapture. Rumbling, the pneumatic drill on the right arm of the creature began a scream of metal passing through the water at a high speed, the feral cry of the drill muffled by the liquid surrounding the looming, ominous form that wielded it. Swinging the hefty tool of spiralling steel like an axe, the creature cleaved through the hunk of aeroplane fuselage that had decimated the access pipe with relative ease. It moved around the brutally dissected aeroplane corpse with an awkward, bulky grace that seemed to contradict its substantial form, eventually reaching the bulkhead doors of the access pipe, which were jammed by a large sheet of warped metal. Only then did the hulking monstrosity of metal, leather and piping hear the fearful plea for help.

The cry of a small child has a certain unnerving aspect to it. It is not a cry of rage or anguish. Sometimes it is not even fear. It is an undiluted lack of understanding of why it is being hurt.

The cry of a small child also can have the effect of grasping on the primal, parental nature of a human being. And in the case of this child, it touches that same instinct in something less than human.

"So Little Sister, how much ADAM do you have for us today?" A peculiarly warped Irish drawl escaped from behind a defiled rabbit mask that the tallest Splicer in the group had donned, to hide what was left of his plasmid riddled visage.  
"No!" The shrill cry of the Little Sister juxtaposed with the deep Irish drawl, making her desperation all the more apparent.  
There were four Splicers surrounding her, and one clad in a dirty lab coat with a bloodstained surgical mask stepped forward. Drawing a large, empty syringe, he spoke in swift staccato strikes, "We'll drink it from your veins... More ADAM... More power..."  
The Irish creature continued the dialogue, "Where's your Big Daddy, you vampiric, leeching bitch?"  
She swiped at him with her outstretched hand, the broken fingernails scratching his leg.  
Snarling, the Irish Splicer launched a savage kick with his bleeding leg, catching the Little Sister in the stomach and lifting her, propelling her across the room where she hit a protruding metal panel, and collapsed to the floor. She sobbed, and as the other Splicers moved towards her, she screamed.

The creature heard the scream, and the glowing green phosphorus that lit up its head, betraying the creature's basic sentience, turned red. The scream accessed the part of the automaton's human brain that wanted to protect. He was no longer an 'it'. He was a Big Daddy, as they had designated him. His directive was to protect his Little Sister. The focus of the Big Daddy shifted from moving the sheet of metal to outside the bulkhead doors, instead, he aimed the hydraulic power of his pneumatic leg at the metal.

One of the other Splicers, dressed in nothing but a kilt and a salvaged waistcoat saw the dim, green glow that he had assumed was the sea turn red.  
"Irish, what the fuck is that light?"  
Irish turned, just in time to witness the sheet of metal hurtle from the ajar bulkhead doors and screech into his kilted colleague, slicing him into two oddly dressed halves.

Irish stared, jaw agape, as the Big Daddy pulled apart the bulkhead doors, murky water cascading down his titanic metal frame. There were three Splicers left: Irish; the Splicer wearing a lab coat; and the last Splicer, a woman with one hideously engorged arm that contrasted heavily with the pretty (but dirt encrusted) dress she was wearing.

The woman pulled a hypodermic syringe filled with a luminescent blue liquid, and injected it. This sapphire liquid was EVE, the fuel for the plasmids she had chosen to utilise, and as she injected the EVE, her hands flared with colour. The woman's less deformed hand cackled an electric laugh, sparks twisting between her fingers. She flung out her arm, and almost immediately a connection of blue lightning was established between the woman and the Big Daddy. The Big Daddy stumbled, paralysed by the blue energy that leapt around his metallic figure.  
Irish pulled out his gun, tucked in the waistband of his flared trousers. It was a Magnum revolver, one of the most powerful handguns in the world. Before firing, he turned to the Splicer with the lab coat. "Doc! Harvest that bitch's ADAM whilst we fight your man over here."

Something in that statement brushed against the paralysed mind of the Big Daddy. He looked at the Little Sister. Her clouded, dejected emerald eyes stated at him through the bloodstains caused by Irish.  
"Mr... Bubbles...?" Her sinister lisp creaked from her cracked lips, echoing the movements of the Big Daddy.  
A mechanical roar clawed its way through the automaton casing of the Big Daddy, and the electric field entrapping him dissipated as he leapt towards the woman, swinging his hand with immense power, causing her to collide with the Doc. 

Irish steadied his weapon, pointing it towards the monolithic sentinel of Rapture. As he pulled the trigger, the weapon bucked twice, the bullets charged towards the Big Daddy, one ricochetting off his metal bodice, the other punching a splintering cobweb of cracks into one of the glaring crimson lights that betrayed the creature's mood. Glowing red liquid weeped from the portals to the Big Daddy's artificially compromised soul, a masquerade of tears that reflected the pain of his Little Sister. His large, powerful left hand reached out and crushed the gun hand of Irish. The man's deep Irish drawl was cleaved through by a shrill scream as the cold steel of the Magnum became entwined with the soft flesh of his hand. Hoisting Irish by his bleeding, broken hand, the Big Daddy's drill began to spin.

Unbeknownst to the mechanical monstrosity, the Doc limped towards the Little Sister. With one swift movement, he lifted the corrupted child, her decrepit pallor encapsulating the sinister intentions of the man wearing the pretence of a doctor.

"Mr Bubbles!" The cry sliced through the brutal reverie of the Big Daddy.

Once again, the primary directive took the reigns of the Big Daddy.  
Irish was dropped.  
Hydraulics activated, steam exploded into action, and the Big Daddy moved like a freight train.

Colliding with the doctor, the Big Daddy tore the arm from the false apothecary, ripping away the limb like the burnt end of a loaf of bread. The splicer tried to scream, his mouth open wide, yet the noise was too terrified to escape his throat, instead it curled into the foetal position in his voice box.  
He simply whimpered.  
The drill was still spinning, so with one blow, the Big Daddy ended the warped existence of the thing that used to be a person, reducing the creature to merely the outfit of a medicine man.

Clutching his gored hand, Irish took in the view before him.

A hulking, tarnished metallic form standing sentinel in a puddle of crimson, surrounded by Irish's dead Splicer companions. The form glanced at his Little Sister. It then turned, a creaking screech of metal upon metal that pulled its nails across the chalkboard of Irish's very being. This creature was not one to trifle with. He was the protector of the thing that was not quite still a child. 

The Big Daddy locked its visor to the eyes of Irish.

With great haste, Irish stumbled to his feet, and ran as fast as his plasmid ridden body would allow.

***

The Little Sister raised her arm, her hand outstretched. The Big Daddy moved its arm, and the Little Sister clasped her tiny digits around one of her protector's behemoth fingers.  
"Did you turn them into angles, Mr Bubbles?"  
No visible answer was given, but still the Little Sister smiled as if she'd received a fascinating reply. They began to walk down one of the many pipes of the submerged metropolis. The Big Daddy noticed the light from the surface dance around the distortion of the water, and the phosphorus in the colossus's face seemed to glow brighter with a new, deep rooted intelligence.


End file.
